


Blooms

by phipiohsum475



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Gardens, M/M, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-02
Updated: 2015-02-02
Packaged: 2018-03-10 03:45:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3275471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phipiohsum475/pseuds/phipiohsum475
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft hoped the gesture would be enough.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blooms

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WhichWolfWins](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhichWolfWins/gifts).



> Thanks for the tumblr help, dear!

John stormed into Mycroft’s office, and Mycroft braced himself. He’d been expecting this since Sherlock’s untimely hospitalization for a simple appendectomy was picked up by the Times. Damn Sherlock, and damn his refusal to update Mycroft to his return to London.

“How fucking dare you!” John raged, muscles tense and ready to attack, before the door even closed behind him.

Mycroft knew it was coming, but the words didn’t hurt less. “John-” he started diplomatically, but was cut off.

“Don’t use that voice with me; I know you better than that,” John turned and stared at the wall while his fists clenched. “You goddamned posh fucking tosser!” John shouted, “How could you fucking do this to me?”

John paused, and paced Mycroft’s office at the Diogenes. “You knew. The whole time,” he glared at Mycroft, “You knew. The entire time. Was our relationship a fucking lie? Just a way to distract me? Trying to keep me from knowing?

“Blood Holmes’. I’m not clever enough, not good enough to know what the hell is going on?! Just distract the stupid bloke with a quick fuck? Is that what this was? I bloody loved you. Christ, I was so thick. Fuck you, Mycroft. You and Sherlock, both. You lying, deceptive fucking fraud. I can’t believe you used me like this.” John turned to leave, but then shot a cruel look over his shoulder, “Don’t ever talk to me again.”

John stormed out, completely oblivious to the way Mycroft’s face fell, the way his heart broke, the way he, as soon as John left, collapsed into his chair, biting back the sob at the back of his throat.

It was the first time John ever said that he’d loved him.

-o-

John left Baker Street, left London, and while Mycroft knew his people were following, he chose not to know where John decided to end up. John hated surveillance.

Sherlock returned to Mycroft, seeking out his best friend. Mycroft directed him to Anthea for John’s whereabouts. Sherlock didn’t notice Mycroft’s melancholy; nor recognize his deferral.

“Fuck off.” The door slammed in his face. Sherlock deliberated, taking in his observations. John was angry. But clearly he’d known Sherlock was alive before this exact moment; the lack of surprise told him that much. John must have read the article. It wasn’t how Sherlock would have liked to reveal himself, but he still expected a scolding, a hug, a hit, a reaction of any sort. John was not acting according to expectations. He was missing something. He knocked again.

A voice hollered from inside the small cabin, “Fuck off, Sherlock. You and Mycroft both.”

John mentioned Mycroft. How odd.

-o-

“What did you do to John?” Sherlock demanded. John refused to allow him entrance, and after forty five minutes, refused to acknowledge his presence altogether.

Mycroft bristled, obviously lying, “I have no idea to what you are referring.”

“He’s furious. Angry at me, without question. And, more telling, angry with you. What. Did. You. Do?”

Mycroft flushed and refused to answer.

“Oh Christ, Mycroft, you seduced him?” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I told you to keep an eye on him, not fuck him. No wonder he’s in a rage. I could have told you he’d not take kindly to being used.”

Mycroft sighed and his shoulders slumped. “I didn’t use him.”

Sherlock took in Mycroft’s genuine emotions, his sadness, and his truth. The sharp intake of breath made Mycroft turn; he didn’t want to be looking at Sherlock when he deduced this. “You’re in love with him,” Sherlock exclaimed, with a dramatic flair of his arms. “Christ, Mycroft, you weren’t supposed to fall in love with him!”

“I’m afraid that logic fails in such a venture,” Mycroft admitted, and Sherlock watched as his mask fell into place, and the emotion retreated into itself.

“Regardless, it is now over. Your little ‘surprise’ took care of that. I’ve followed his wishes to not speak with him. I suppose he’ll forgive you at some point. I hold little hope of that for myself.”

“Have you read his blog? John Watson is a romantic. Woo him. And do it quickly; my work suffers without my blogger. You need to fix this.”

-o-

Anthea updated him as to John’s schedule. Working at a local clinic, part time, four hours each day. They watched John leave the small cabin, and when he disappeared down the road, Mycroft’s team went to work. Mycroft himself dug in; John would appreciate his efforts.

After three hours, the sweat dripped down Mycroft’s face, his collar was damp. He’d shed his jacket, rolled up his sleeves, and his waistcoat was filthy with soil and pollen. He stepped back, with the landscape architects and their staff. The garden was exactly as Mycroft had dictated; a perfect replica of the childhood garden the Watson matriarch cultivated while she was still alive. The garden John Watson played in as a child, had his first kiss at fifteen, mourned his mother’s passing in during leave, and shed tears in when the property was sold against his will, as the property went to Harry in the division of his parent’s estate.

He cleaned himself up slightly, wiping the sweat from his brow, and cooling down in the air conditioning of his car. Once more properly put together, he exited the vehicle, and sat on the stone bench, awaiting John’s return. The team left, and he sat there, anxious that his gesture might not be well received.

It was a new experience; anxiety. He rarely felt unsure. People were so easy to read when you had no emotional connection; with one, it was like trying to read a book in a brand new language. He could identify patterns, make out verbs; but without a basic understanding of translation, he was lost.

His leg bobbed nervously until he heard the obvious sign of John – and his cane – come up the road. Mycroft cringed, the cane grated on his nerves, stabbing him in the very heart. John, depressed, John without pleasure or purpose or life, needed a cane. Not his John. Not even Sherlock’s John. Mycroft hoped the gesture would be enough.

He heard the stutter as John stopped, and the gasp as he recognized the scene before him. John turned down the path, and stopped once again as he saw Mycroft sitting there, waiting.

“Christ, I should have known this was you.” His face attempted anger, but his eyes were soft and wet.

Mycroft stood, and took a step towards John, leaving a meaningful distance between them. “I was told a… romantic gesture might be appreciated. It took days to determine your attachment to your childhood garden, and even longer to procure a photograph.”

Mycroft looked around him and gestured, “I hoped you might like it. I even helped.” He tugged on his stained waistcoat to emphasize his point.

John took in the view around him, gorgeous flowers nearly as tall as him. He sighed, “Why, Mycroft? If you cared at all, why did you lie?”

Mycroft gripped his umbrella, the safety of it a comfort to him. He took a breath, then started, “I helped Sherlock plan his death. It was the last plan in a list of several; we’d never expected it to be necessary. Either of us.

“So long as Sherlock was meant to be dead, any suggestion of his life would be dangerous. To him, to you, to Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson. All threats to Sherlock, should he choose not to jump. John, I love you too, and the thought of losing you was tantamount to my own death.

“I know, John, that you abhor being protected, that you can protect yourself, but I am too weak. I’ve dealt with Sherlock’s near death a half dozen times. I am too weak to fathom another. Forgive me, John, for being too weak to tell you. If any hint, any whiff, of Sherlock’s life came to light, your life would be extinguished. I simply couldn’t do it.” Mycroft took another step towards John, and his heart warmed as John stepped towards him as well.

“Jesus, Mycroft,” John took Mycroft’s lapel in hand, “I know, love, that you want to protect me. That you care for me, that you love me. But we’ve got to be partners in this. Equals. If you don’t stop coddling me, how different am I than your own brother.”

Mycroft chuckled, “I’m concerned you can’t determine the difference, what sort of man do you think I am?”

John smacked him softly on the chest, and looked around, “I can’t believe you did this. Just for me. And that you did this.” John brushed off dirt from Mycroft’s vest. “It’s lovely.”

John looked around once last time, then gazed adoringly at Mycroft. John pulled on his lapel, and Mycroft’s lips came to his own. They embraced, Mycroft using his previous observations to pull moans and breath from John’s throat. He felt John’s arms around him; heard the cane drop to the ground, and he began to back up slowly towards the cabin door.

-o-

John gasped into Mycroft’s mouth as they pressed against each other, flesh against flesh for the first time in two months. Mycroft smiled, and fell backwards on the bed. It was up to John, how this progressed, and he pulled the blond in for another kiss, while stroking his sides and back. To touch John was pleasure itself, and Mycroft was determined to drink in every moment.

John leaned past him, opening a drawer. Lube, Mycroft’s mind supplied, and within moments, he felt a few drips as it fell down John’s fingers, eagerly working himself open. Mycroft whimpered; filling John was a gift from the gods, ecstasy itself, and just the thought of John’s tight heat made him throb further.

“Mycroft, I’ve missed you. Promise me; promise me you didn’t mean to lie.”

“John, I adore you. I had nothing but your interests at heart. Please, John, please understand.”

John lined himself up and whimpered as Mycroft breeched him. He felt the width of Mycroft’s cock spreading him wide, and he slid down in a blissful pain he’d missed so very much. He breathed out as Mycroft slid inside him, and nearly cried with the pleasure, the rightness of feeling Mycroft within him. He’d used copious amounts of lubricant, and he gasped as Mycroft slid in with ease. John pulled himself back up and slowly pressed back down into him, moaning the entire way.

Within minutes, John was bouncing hard on his cock, his hands gripping John’s hips, and his body pistoning upwards into John’s body. “Jesus fuck, Mycroft, I missed this.”

“Oh John,” Mycroft tried to say more, but his words faltered before even making it out of his mouth, “Oh.”

John leaned down into Mycroft, capturing Mycroft’s gasps between his lips, then nibbling at the tongue he desperately missed. He filled himself repeatedly on Mycoft’s engorgement, panting with pleasure all the while.

Within minutes, John switched from bouncing to grinding, desperately shoving as much of Mycroft as he could inside his arse. He shouted as he came, thickly pulsing ropes of come over Mycoft’s filthy waistcoat, and feeling, soon thereafter, the dampness of Mycroft’s release stuffing him warm and full.

He collapsed onto Mycroft’s chest, and Mycroft ran soft hands over his torso and arse affectionately. “Never again, Myc, never again.”

“No, John. I promise.” Mycroft assured, leaving gently kisses on his temple.

Even after John lifted himself off Mycroft, they refused to lose touch. Mycroft stripped, leaving his soiled clothes on the floor near the bedside, and took John in his arms.

John snored softly in moments, and Mycroft nestled a kiss into the grey blond hair.

“Forever, John,” he whispered, and meant every word.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find more me on [Tumblr](http://phipiohsum475.tumblr.com/).  
> You can find more Johncroft at [MycroftandJohn.tumblr.com](http://mycroftandjohn.tumblr.com/).


End file.
